


Anything for you

by JenniferHawke



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gift Giving, Holidays, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Satinalia, Saturnalia, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 16:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferHawke/pseuds/JenniferHawke
Summary: Fenris has never celebrated Satinalia. Hawke shows him the true meaning of the holiday.





	Anything for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fandom_Human](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_Human/gifts).



It starts with a bottle of wine, as most their admissions do. Hawke's cheeks warm with drink, pinking further as the elf across from her smiles, green eyes lifting at the corners. The only time she sees him like this - genuinely happy - is during her visits. Part of her is flattered - that he reserves this side for her. But the more sensible side of Hawke wishes he could find such joy outside of these walls, without her presence and a bottle of wine to ignite them. 

Their conversation turns to the upcoming celebration of Satinalia, when Fenris admits he has nothing planned for the day.

“Nothing at all?” her eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Did we not partake in the celebration at The Hanged Man?”

Just a few days prior, Varric had thrown a feast in his suite. Hawke and all her companions had joined then, drinking and eating until the wee hours of the morning. It was a wonderful night, that was certain, but that was because they all had previous engagements for Satinalia day itself. 

“Well, Varric hosted that night because everyone was already committed to something on the actual date. Sebastian has his sermons. Isabela made it abundantly clear that she’d be spreading cheer by gracing the Blooming Rose with their favorite customer. Merrill somehow roped Varric into telling stories to the young elves in the alienage, because, according to her, she can never get the voices right. Although, I suppose Varric won’t mind terribly, he loves a receptive audience, and he’ll have those children hanging off of his every word,” Hawke laughs. “And Anders and Lirene from the clinic are going to be handing out food rations to the poor.” Hawke had been more than glad to donate coin to help her friend pay for the food needed. “Aveline is going to be stuck on guard duty, but I made her promise to stop by for a drink afterwards. Mother almost considers her another daughter now, with everything we went through together to get here,” she says with a smile. Her eyes meet Fenris’. “And that just leaves you.”

“It is just a day like any other,” he says, taking a long sip from his bottle.

“Are there little things you do to celebrate? Any traditions?”

“I’ve … never really partaken in the holiday. Not truly. Traditionally, slaves are permitted to feast during Satinalia, to eat just as well as their Master's. But Danarius did not wish to spoil his slaves. He thought it a waste of good food. One year, however, he gifted me a blanket. It might not sound like much, but it is very rare for a slave to own personal effects. Even bedding. He did seem to be in kinder spirits than usual, so it was a small thing to look forward to.” 

Hawke scolds herself then. She should have realised how insensitive the question was. Before she can apologize, Fenris turns his gaze to her.

“I’m not sure if it is a Free Marcher custom, but in the last few weeks, many of the bakery’s have been selling these sweets. I admit, I’ve found myself at the stalls time and again. It seems I cannot get enough of them,” he smiles.

“Do you know what they’re called?”

“They are a cookie of sorts. Simple, perhaps made with only flour and sugar. I forget the name.”

“Oh, you aren’t talking about shortbread cookies, are you?”

“Ah, yes. That’s what they’re called.”

Hawke scrunches up her face, and Fenris laughs. “Not a fan I take it?”

“Heavens, no!” she laughs. “Mother used to make them every year, and insisted, that since she spent time making them, we all had to eat them. Father loved them. So did Carver. But Bethany and I detested the things.”

“You truly do not know what you are missing.”

“Oh, I certainly do. You are free to all the shortbread you want. I can promise you I will never be tempted to ask you to share.”

Fenris laughs then, and it is a joy to her ears. His eyes soften, and she returns his smile. “And what of you - what traditions do you partake in?”

“My family and I always celebrated together. Waking up at dawn, exchanging gifts, sitting in front of the fire with a glass of wine. We were allowed just one glass, even as children,” she chuckles, fond memories dancing before her eyes. It occurs to her then, that every memory Fenris has that should be precious is tainted with misery. That, even a memory of receiving a gift is twisted from its origin. She looks upon him then, their eyes meeting and holding each other's gaze.

“I’m sorry … it was unkind of me to share such things,” she says. 

“Why?”

“Because you … you’ve never …”

“I do not want your pity,” he says coldly, and Hawke sighs. 

“I do not pity you Fenris. It just hurts me to think of all you’ve endured. You’re a good man.”

“How can you be so sure?” he averts his eyes then, staring blankly at the contents of wine in the bottle. “There is much you do not know of my past. Of all that I’ve done.”

“Those things were beyond your control. You’ve told me before -  a slave has no choice, that he only thinks of his Master’s wishes. That wasn’t you, Fenris. That was someone else in another life.”

Slowly, he lifts his gaze, and Hawke nearly drowns in the depth of emotion swimming behind his eyes. “I wish I could believe you. You make me want to.”

“Perhaps one day you will.”

It’s in that moment that Hawke promises herself that she will give Fenris a reason to cherish this holiday, to give him new memories to alleviate the sting of ones that are a source of pain. She doesn’t know what exactly she is to Fenris, but she would do just about anything to erase his self doubts, and to show him how much he means to her.  
  


* * *

It is far too early when Fenris is awakened by a loud pounding on his front door. He grumbles, rolling over, hoping the pest will leave if he wills it. But the banging at the door continues, pulling him back from his sleep.

“Fasta Vass,” he grunts, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He quickly throws on a pair of trousers and a grey cotton shirt, and pads down the stairs. Whoever it was had better have a good excuse for disrupting his slumber.

When he pulls open the door, his eyes narrow with annoyance, he is shocked to see Hawke, a huge grin plastered on her face.

“Merry Satinalia!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around his neck. Fenris stiffly stands, startled by the sign of affection.

“Hawke?” he asks, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“No one should spend this day alone,” she says, her eyes twinkling as she pulls away. Immediately, Fenris misses her warmth. “Grab your coat, it’s chilly out.”

“Where are we going?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Fenris sighs. He hates surprises - one could never properly prepare themselves without knowing what they were getting themselves into. He throws on a light wool jacket, but as he reaches his sword, Hawke chuckles.

“You won’t need that where we’re going. And I doubt any criminals are lingering the streets. Even thieves take this day off.”

“If you are certain,” he says, and steps past the threshold, closing the door behind him.

“Come on!” she exclaims, taking his hand in hers, lacing her slender fingers around his own. His eyebrows raise, his heart suddenly coming to a halt within his chest. It startles him, truly, to feel her supple flesh in his palm, her skin somehow warm amidst the chill around them. He realises he’s frozen in place when she begins to tug him along. He follows her without another word, cherishing this tender moment between  two … friends? Almost lovers? Fenris does not know what they are - a slave never dreams of such a cherished relationship. But he’s not a slave. Not anymore. Perhaps he could dare to dream of something more.

Thick, fluffy snowflakes fall from the sky, still dark with dusk. But despite the unholy early hour, a choir sings in the distance, voices so harmonic they sound unworldly. Fenris shivers, a chill running through his body at the frigid temperature.

“I’ll never understand why you don’t invest in a warmer jacket. This isn’t Tevinter, you know,” she teases, running her thumb in circles against his hand, perhaps in a feeble attempt to keep him warm.

“You do have a point.”

“It’s not far, you’ll be warm in no time, I promise.”

As they walk through the streets, she speaks of things he does not know - plum pudding and honeyed cakes. But all Fenris can fixate on is the decadently smooth skin grazing the palm of his hand. A few minutes later, they round the corner, and Fenris realises that they are heading towards her estate. When they reach her door, she reluctantly let's go of his hand, and he nearly takes her hand back in his own.  _ Nearly _ . She beams at him then, her wondrous eyes gleaming, even under the dusky sky. 

“Here,” she says, and runs her fingers through his hair for a few moments. “Your hair is all mussed up.” As her fingers brush against his scalp, a delightful chill prickles at the back of his neck. He’d not known such a small touch could feel so … pleasurable. 

“Perhaps I would look more presentable had I known I would be joining you.”

“You look fine,” she says with a grin, removing her fingers from his hair. He immediately misses her touch.

As they step into the warmth of her home, the aroma of spiced bread reaches his nose. He follows Hawke to the living room, where Leandra greets him with a smile.

“Fenris dear, how nice of you to join us. Come in,” the elder Hawke woman says, and Fenris nods.

“I appreciate the invite.”

He follows them into a side room he’s never been in before. The estate is decked out in brightly coloured ribbons. A pine centerpiece sits in the middle of a large dining table.

“Take a seat,” Hawke gestures, and they sit together. Leandra returns, a tray full of cookies.

“My daughter tells me you enjoy shortbread,” she says, holding out the tray to him. Reluctantly, he accepts a cookie.

“I do. You have my thanks,” he says, and he can’t help but wonder what else Hawke has told her mother of him. Did she know he was an escaped slave? Despite being of nobility, Leandra never looked upon him with disgust when Fenris came to collect Hawke. She was always kind and soft spoken, something Fenris never really appreciated until now.

“Such manners,” Leandra says, taking a seat at the table.

Fenris takes a bite into the cookie, and hums his approval. It’s even better than the cookies he purchases from the Hightown stall.

“See, darling, someone approves of your mother’s baking,” Leandra beams and Hawke sighs.

“Your baking is just fine, Mother.”

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. Moments later, Gamlen walks in, with Carver tagging behind him.

“Carver!” Leandra exclaims, pushing past Gamlen to embrace her son. 

“Am I nothing to you now?” Gamlen sounds annoyed, but strolls over the the table, pouring himself a glass of wine. Hawke joins her mother, giving her brother a brief hug.

“The Templars gave you a day off? I’m shocked,” she says, her voice teasing.

“I only have an hour or so to spare, but I am here until then.”

“Only an hour?” Leandra gasps. “But it’s Satinalia.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Mother. But I have duties.”

“Well, you best open your presents now then.”

Fenris is content to sit and watch the Hawke family exchange their gifts. He drinks spiced wine, and munches on various treats displayed on the table. Hawke’s staff busies themselves in the kitchen, and despite his belly full of sugary sweets, his stomach anticipates the savory smells that waft through the air.

They share a hearty breakfast, filled with tender meats, sweet bread, and fresh fruit. By the time they are finished, Fenris is fit to burst. He comfortably sips his drink when Carver bids his family farewell.

As Leandra and Gamlen converse in the kitchen, Hawke adds another log to the fire. It crackles loudly, tiny embers of fire floating above the wood. She reaches up on her mantle, grabbing two remaining gifts. 

“I have something for you,” she says.

Fenris is reluctant to accept them; he’d brought nothing in return. But he knows Hawke, and knows it would wound her should he refuse. He slowly unwraps the first one, and when it is revealed, his heart jumps in his throat.

“It’s a book,” he says slowly, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth.

“It’s a subject you’re familiar with. The book is by Shartan, the elf who helped Andraste free the slaves. You know about him, right?”

“A little,” he admits. He’s hidden this from her for so long, and Fenris suddenly feels insecure. “It’s just … slaves are not permitted to read. I’ve never learned.”

“It’s not too late to learn, Fenris.”

“Isn’t it? Sometimes I wonder. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, I do appreciate the thought. I’ve always wanted to learn more of Shartan. Perhaps this is my chance.”

“I’d be more than willing to help you learn.”

“Are you certain?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it,” she says warmly, placing a hand over his.

“Thank you, Hawke.” She can’t possibly know what this means to Fenris. He’s always wanted to learn, for as far back as he can remember. It’d be one last thing erased from his life of a slave - his illiteracy. 

“Open your other one,” she grins.

“You spoil me,” he chuckles. As his fingers unwrap the gift, a deep plum scarf is revealed.

“Here, allow me,” she says. Hawke stands before him, leaning forward as she delicately wraps the scarf around his neck. “You seldom dress appropriately for the winter. Maybe this will help keep you warm.” Her hands graze the back of his neck as she winds the scarf around him, and once again, a delicious shiver ghosts over his skin at her touch. Fenris looks up at her, and notices just how close their faces are, so close he can smell the sweet wine from her lips. She gazes deeply into his eyes. Fenris longs to close the distance, to press his lips against hers, to finally know how her mouth tastes against his own. But he stalls for too long, and Hawke lowers her gaze, a nervous chuckle ghosting past her lips as a light blush dances across her cheeks. 

“Thank you, Hawke,” he finally says. He’s surprised by the tenderness of his own voice -  a voice he scarcely recognises as his own.

“Anything for you, Fenris.”

The admission sends his heart dancing beneath his chest. For so long, he’s wondered if her feelings run as deep as his own - if all her flirting was just a habit, or if her words came from the heart. But being here with her, being invited into her home with her family during Satinalia - it’s shown him that she  _ does  _ care. He’s wanted her for years, desperately so. Perhaps, one day soon, he will gather the courage to tell her how he feels. But for now, he’s content to enjoy her company. 

* * *

  
  
  


**_End notes: I took some liberty with Satinalia. Based on what I’ve read about “Saturnalia”, the Romans would allow their slaves to dine with them at a grand feast, and sometimes would play role reversal. I certainly couldn’t see Danarius doing that, so that’s where the idea for that conversation came from. Anywho, whatever you celebrate, I hope you enjoy the holidays!_ **


End file.
